the ineffable smell of
groceries in which the suggestion of parched coffee prevailed. This is
the sharpest remembrance of all, and even to-day that odour affects me
somewhat in the manner that the interior of a ship affects a person prone
to seasickness. My Cousin Robert, in his well-worn alpaca coat, was
already seated at his desk behind the clouded glass partition next the
alley at the back of the store, and as I entered he gazed at me over his
steel-rimmed spectacles with that same disturbing look of clairvoyance I
have already mentioned as one of his characteristics. The grey eyes were
quizzical, and yet seemed to express a little commiseration.

"Well, Hugh, you've decided to honour us, have you?" he asked.

"I'm much obliged for giving me the place, Cousin Robert," I replied.

But he had no use for that sort of politeness, and he saw through me, as
always.

"So you're not too tony for the grocery business, eh?"

"Oh, no, sir."

"It was good enough for old Benjamin Breck," he said. "Well, I'll give
you a fair trial, my boy, and no favouritism on account of relationship,
any more than to Willie."

His strong voice resounded through the store, and presently my cousin
Willie appeared in answer to his summons, the same Willie who used to
lead me, on mischief bent, through the barns and woods and fields of
Claremore. He was barefoot no longer, though freckled still, grown lanky
and tall; he wore a coarse blue apron that fell below his knees, and a
pencil was stuck behind his ear.

"Get an apron for Hugh," said his father.

Willie's grin grew wider.

"I'll fit him out," he said.

"Start him in the shipping department," directed Cousin Robert, and
turned to his letters.

I was forthwith provided with an apron, and introduced to the slim and
anaemic but cheerful Johnny Hedges, the shipping clerk, hard at work in
the alley. Secretly I looked down on my fellow-clerks, as one destined
for a higher mission, made out of better stuff,--finer stuff. Despite my
attempt to hide this sense of superiority they were swift to discover it;
and perhaps it is to my credit as well as theirs that they did not resent
it. Curiously enough, they seemed to acknowledge it. Before the week was
out I had earned the nickname of Beau Brummel.

"Say, Beau," Johnny Hedges would ask, when I appeared of a morning, "what
happened in the great world last night?"

I had an affection for them, these fellow-clerks, and I often wondered at